


The Radio Demon is a Punk-Ass Loser

by sirdust



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Failed Revenge Plots, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, Tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 11:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21898186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirdust/pseuds/sirdust
Summary: Sir Pentious is cunning, resourceful, and determined to show the Radio Demon exactly how much better he is than him.It doesn't go well. Jesus Christ does it not go well.EDIT: Discontinued for now, but I'm still gonna write something with similar ideas to this later.
Relationships: Angel Dust/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), Minor Charlie Magne/Vaggie - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best things in life are found in dumpsters.

Sir Pentious is a worthy match for the Radio Demon. He’s brilliant, he’s resourceful, and he knows himself to always be ready for anything.

That’s why the destruction of his airship is nothing more than a tiny deterrent. He’ll be back in business in a week, tops, and then he’ll show that freaky shapeshifter who’s boss.

Actually maybe two weeks. Having a single minion whose brains are half-scrambled at your disposal doesn’t exactly scream ‘speedy recovery’, but things will be back to normal soon. Better than normal, even.

He’s certain of it.

Egg Boi #23 is occupying himself with the slightly musical tones that the buttons on the motel room’s shitty little microwave make when pressed. He pushes them without a sense of rhythm or meter. It sounds like a tinny, bastardized version of ‘Hot Cross Buns’, which Pentious didn’t really think was possible to mess up so badly. After another two minutes of listening, his patience runs out.

“Quit that,” he snaps, pulling #23 away from the microwave. The minion pouts.

“If you keep that nonsense up, you’re going to break the damn thing. It could still be useful to us,” Pentious explains. His tone is no less harsh, but #23’s face lights up anyways.

“Can we use it to make maccuncheese?” he asks, bouncing in place.

“I meant that I’m going to tear it to scrap and use the parts to build a weapon.” Pentious pauses for a moment. “I am kind of hungry, though. We can make some macaroni and cheese first.”

Though he makes an effort to clearly enunciate, the importance of proper pronunciation seems to go over the egg’s head. Instead, he throws his arms into the air with a cheer.

Eh. Whatever.

One humble meal of instant macaroni later, Sir Pentious is elbow-deep in disassembling the microwave. He keeps several eyes out for anything useful, but he ultimately concedes that this microwave in particular is notably lacking in any lethal weapon potential. Hardly worth his time. His sleeve does catch on fire at one point though so it’s not completely harmless.

He leans back from the unsturdy table and watches #23 poke at the sharp edges of the scrapped microwave before slapping his hand away. The destruction of his last available minion would be a huge setback.

Wait. No. Setback isn’t the word that he’s looking for. It would be nothing more than a simple inconvenience, and he would find some way to move forward stronger than ever.

The fact that he’s mostly likely about to be banned from this motel for destruction of property is, for example, the smallest of irritants. He’s been banned from all sorts of places for much more interesting reasons. He delightedly imagines the terror of every small business owner across the nine circles when they hear his name.

He really doesn’t think that the incident with the collapsed ski lift was fair though. That was only partially his fault.

* * *

Husk despises taking out the trash and the only reason he’s doing it today is because he knows that Niffty will take over for him if he doesn’t. She needs to learn to stop cleaning up other people’s messes. If she were anybody else then he would call them a goody two-shoes dipshit, but Niffty isn’t stupid and screwing her over wouldn’t give him any satisfaction.

He drags the hunk of garbage on the ground behind him as he walks to the dumpster at the entrance of the neighboring alleyway. If it rips open, it rips open. You couldn’t pay him to carry it on his shoulder when he has no idea what kind of shit Angel throws away.

Well, he has some idea. That doesn’t mean he has any interest in confirming the contents for himself.

When he reaches his destination, he tightens his grip on the garbage bag and lifts it over his shoulder, swinging it downwards into the dumpster like a sledgehammer. It lands on the mostly-empty metal bottom with a tremendous thud. His shoulder cries out in protest at the strenuous motion and Husk mutters to himself about how he always knew that dying old was a huge mistake. He turns and begins to head back towards the hotel.

He’s several paces away from the alley when he hears a slipping noise and a thud. He continues walking for a few moments before the sound of the garbage bag being ripped open stops him in his tracks; he pivots back around on his heel with a resigned sigh and foul mood.

He begins his unamused march back towards the dumpster, cussing Alastor out underneath his breath for giving him all of these stupid fucking responsibilities.

“What’s your fucking deal?” he practically shouts as he rounds the corner. A tiny egg is the first sight to greet him, staring up with soulless yellow eyes. Behind him, Pentious hangs over the side of the dumpster, his tail the only visible part of his body as he perches on the edge. Husk strides past the uncertain-looking minion. He lifts a leg and kicks Pentious hard, pushing the rest of him into the dumpster with a high-pitched yelp and loud scraping noise. It doesn’t make Husk’s hangover any more tolerable.

“Thought you died, you ugly old snake,” he scoffs, scratching his nose. An angry hiss echoes from inside the dumpster.

“I lived, bitch.”

“I don’t care. Get the fuck off of Al’s turf.” A thought pops into his foggy brain. “Unless you’re planning on wasting your time with the princess’s pseudo-rehab.” Al had wanted him to add some sort of stupid disclaimer to attract more ‘potential patrons’. Ugh.

Pentious grips the edge of the dumpster and pulls himself up to peek at Husk from beneath the brim of his hat.

“I want nothing to do with the royal family. Bunch of spineless nitwits when it comes down to it. Hard pass.”

“Shit. Looks like we have something in common, then.”

Pentious ignores Husk’s comment and goes on.

“This isn’t Alastor’s turf, and if it was, then it’s mine now.”

“Don’t be a dumbass. Being a dumbass only gets you stitches,” Husk growls, growing impatient. He flexes his claws in annoyance.

“I have some great news, then, because I’m far smarter than you or anyone else in your little posse could ever hope to be.”

Husk swipes at the exposed part of his face, causing him to fall back into the dumpster with a startled gasp. He lets out a quiet ‘oof’ as the back of his head hits metal. #23 cries out and wobbles over to check on his boss, but Husk holds him back with a single paw on his head. The minion runs in place, unphased.

Husk glances at the ripped-open garbage bag, observing the lovely hole that compliments its already-stunning visage. His brow crinkles in abject disgust.

“What, are you looking for you next meal?”

Pentious rubs the back of his head. He looks like he’s in severe pain, but if Husk had to bet money on it, he would say that it’s just a classic case of melodrama.

“What would you say if I answered ‘yes’ to your question?”

“I’d say you can eat shit and fuck off. That a good enough response for ya?”

“Sorry, but no thank you. I’m already full.”

“Full of shit?”

Pentious’s breath catches in his throat and he slaps himself across the face. Husk’s aggravation melts into stupor. He’d just walked himself into an even better insult.

Slithered himself into an even better insult?

He doesn’t have legs. He isn’t sure.

“Maccuncheese!” #23 exclaims, breaking the air of bafflement.

“Macaroni and cheese!” Pentious hisses at his minion, glaring daggers.

Husk ignores them both.

“Right. Last time I’m gonna say it. Tell me what you’re looking for, get off of hotel grounds, or--and this is my favorite option--fucking both.” He gives an angry sniff and shoves #23 backwards into an uneventful sitting position. “You’re wasting my goddamn time, and my time is alcohol. You’re wasting all my fucking alcohol. Wrap it the hell up or I leave you with a souvenir of my own choice.” He strikes his claws against the dumpster to send the point home.

Yikes. That felt awful on his knuckles.

“Wrap, you say?” Pentious grins smugly from the bottom of the dumpster, discarded candy wrapper in one hand.

“I’m so disappointed in Al for not smashing you to pieces.”

Pentious grimaces.

“Rude.”

“I’m about to get a whole lot ruder, shithead.”

“If you really must know,” Pentious sighs, “I’m looking for ‘dirt’.” He makes air quotes with his claws before digging them into the plastic bag, widening the hole. A black banana peel falls out. He shifts uncomfortably to avoid it. “On the Radio Demon.”

“Oh, it’s some petty Overlord beef bullshit, huh? Shoulda known. And here I thought you were trying to steal our rotten apples and used condoms.”

“Why would I want those?” Pentious looks nauseated by the idea.

“Honestly, they’d probably make you smell better.” Husk casually leans against the side of the dumpster and watches Pentious grumble in embarrassment.

Yeah, this is pretty gross, actually, and Husk doesn’t feel like supervising.

“You know he doesn’t live here, right?”

The question gives Pentious pause. He drops a faded magazine about some celebrity gossip or other and looks up at Husk.

“Huh?”

“He works here. He doesn’t live here. He’s not gonna throw away any personal shit.” Husk sticks a claw in his teeth to pick out something that had lodged itself in there during breakfast. “You’re more likely to find old needles and God-knows-what-the-fuck-else than you are anything Al has laid a finger on.”

Pentious sits in stunned silence for a second before sticking one arm in the air in triumph.

“Exactly! This was all a ruse! You’ll never find out what I’m really planning for your boss!” He lifts himself onto the edge of the dumpster, sitting backwards for a moment before tumbling onto the ground tail-first. His hat is crumpled and its expression is dizzy.

“He’s not my boss,” Husk spits through clenched teeth, curling his paw into a fist. He is anything but his goddamn boss.

“Not your boss,” Pentious laughs, grabbing #23 like a sack of potatoes. The Egg Boi snuggles comfortably into his arms. Husk is tempted to swipe at him, but his head throbs too much to fight right now.

“Nope!” he grunts. He reaches for an empty bottle that had fallen out of the garbage bag and tosses it at Pentious as he slips towards the other end of the alley. It doesn’t hit its mark, but the shattering sound seems to make him jump, and goddamnit that’s going to have to be good enough for now because otherwise Husk is pretty sure he’s gonna kick the dumpster in frustration and break his foot while doing so.

Husk barely knows the guy. As far as he’s concerned, ‘barely’ is still too much.

He hates taking out the trash.

* * *

Pentious celebrates his victory by humming to himself as he plots his next course of action. With the aide of his impeccable genius and infinite charisma, he had won the battle of “not getting stabbed in the face by that cat guy who smells like piss and beer”.

No garbage, no problem.

He knows for a fact that this is the beginning of his greatest campaign yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i say slow burn i mean slow burn. pairings that kiss within the first 10k words? child's play  
the main pairing will get lots of focus of course, but i do enjoy writing platonic/familial interactions and these are fun characters to work with. so relax and enjoy  
or don't i'm not ur mom  
will try to update this semi-regularly, maybe every week once the holidays are done? don't hold me to that though since things are always liable to change


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What are friends for?  
Don't look at me. I couldn't tell you.

It’s a quarter past three in the morning, and Angel and Cherri are sitting on the front steps of an abandoned bank in what could pass for “the quiet part of the neighborhood” if such a place existed. The street isn’t devoid of its own microcosm of unrest, but it isn’t nearly as bustling as the more populated areas in the vicinity. Angel is beginning to feel the night take its toll on his body and he has a feeling that Cherri is beginning to nurse a headache of her own. Clubbing and afterparties and thunderous laughter are great fun until dehydration and exhaustion begin to set in.

“Want somethin’ to drink?” Cherri asks. She pulls out a black bottle that has an almost oily sheen to its surface. The scent of blackberries, vodka, and paint thinner waft from its opening. Angel grabs it and knocks back a few gulps with an unfazed air, ignoring the all-too familiar sensation of consuming something distinctly unfit to put in his body. He sets it onto the sliver of concrete between where the two of them are sitting and wipes his mouth gracelessly.

“What’s in it?” he asks, half-curious. The taste lingers in his mouth in a way that he can’t seem to place.

“Family secret,” Cherri says, picking the bottle up. “It’s my miraculous hangover-curing cocktail, beloved by alcoholics and party animals citywide. I call it ‘Baby Piss’.” She goes in for a drink of her own and chokes almost immediately, the sour brew burning her windpipe.

“Lives up to its name, huh?” Angel says. He leans back onto the steps underneath him and listens as she splutters for a solid fifteen seconds before she manages to swallow and take a deep breath. “If you ain’t lyin’ through your teeth about the hangover-curin’ bit, I think I know a guy who could make use of it.”

“What-” Cherri takes another sip. This time, she manages to avoid a coughing fit. “-new boy toy?”

“Something of the sort, in a week or two’s time,” Angel says. He sticks one arm into the air with a theatrical flourish. “It’s a tragedy, really, babes. He refuses to admit to himself that he’s smitten by me!”

“Just like you always say. Ain’t a man in hell who can stay away from you for long.”

“Absolutely not, no.” Angel sits up and places a hand on Cherri’s shoulder. “Thanks for being patronizing about it. I mean that.”

“Anytime, Angie,” she says, shooting finger guns with her free hand and flips her hair over her shoulder. “I can be a patronizing bitch when I want. I’m complicated like that, dude.”

“Sugar tits, you’re about as complicated as a package of unsalted crackers.”

“Fucker.” She smacks his hand off in mock offense and returns her gaze to her cocktail, gleaming orange underneath the harsh light of the pentagram above them. “Who’s the unlucky guy, anyways?”

“He’s the bartender at my new place, y’know. Cat demon. Name’s Husk, total-”

“Yeesh. I’m surprised that they haven’t gotten sick of you and kicked your ass to the curb yet.”

“-as I was saying,” Angel says, elbowing her in the ribs as payback for the interruption, “I don’t think he likes me too much yet, but I ain’t worried about it. I know his type.”

“See, when you say ‘type’, do you mean his personality, or do you mean ‘he’s super into twinks’?”

“Both, actually. I mean, I was talking about the former, but I’d also bet money on the latter.” He stretches his upper set of arms over his head, shoulders popping. “He’s that kinda guy who thinks he knows more about how much life and love suck than anybody else, but trust me. Persistence is key.”

Cherri shrugs in something akin to unenthused agreement. The two of them are silent for a moment as they take in the street’s early morning ambiance. They aren’t alone; several other demons are going about their afterlives, ignorant of the pair. One gnaws silently on a cigar next to a dead end sign, blowing smoke into the already-thick atmosphere and watching as it disappears. Two individuals are shambling drunkenly into a nearby alley, already struggling to remove their clothes. A woman babbles incomprehensibly into her phone. One arm holds it while her other two light matches fresh out of the box, dropping them to the ground and letting them die beneath her feet without even looking. She seems agitated. The distant cacophony of damned screaming and fiery explosions and pulse-pounding, ear-bleedingly loud club music fills the entire neighborhood with an otherworldly sense of unease.

Angel has become adept at blocking out the stress of his world, so long as there’s a heaping portion of drugs lying around to help him make do. Truly getting used to it will probably elude him forever. When he was alive, he had always thought to himself that nothing could surpass the chaotic shitholery of New York, but in hindsight, that had been awful naive of him.

“I dated a bartender once, actually,” Cherri remarks, breaking the silence. “She kept trying to drag me into some codependent bullshit where she thought she was making me into a better person by calling herself a good listener. Kept trying to get me to tell her what was wrong with me.” She laughs. “The joke’s on her. I’m the most well-adjusted piece of shit here.”

Angel nods sagely. “Ain’t nothin’ more well-adjusted than domestic terrorism and gang violence, hon.”

“You got that right!” Cherri rises to her feet in a burst of energy and hurls the bottle of mysterious liquid to the pavement, punctuating her outcry and forgetting that glass and pavement don’t get along very well at all. The bottle promptly shatters into a hundred little alcohol-soaked razors. Angel’s reflexes kick in as he lifts his arms to his face to shield from the spray.

“You weren’t going to drink the rest of that, right?” Cherri asks after a beat.

“Wasn’t exactly planning on it.”

“Good,” she says, sitting back down. “Broken shards and concrete aren’t part of the recipe.”

“Should’ve thought of that before throwing it onto the ground like a rampaging gorilla. You just can’t resist the call of destruction, can you?” Angel places one hand against his chest, pretending to be scandalized.

Cherri sticks out her tongue. “You’re one to talk, Mister Mobster.”

Angel watches something in her expression change slightly. Some part of himself braces for what she’s going to say next--what she’s asked about more often than he’d like, in all honesty.

“So, how is, um-” Cherri cuts herself off, unsure how to continue. Angel doesn’t look back at her as her waits for her to finish.

“-how are things?” she settles on. She avoids eye contact, pretending instead to care very much about fiddling with her glove.

“I know you’re only asking that ‘cuz you feel like you have to.”

“Well damn, Angel,” she says, voice sharpening. “I just wanna make sure nothing bad happens while I’m not looking.”

“Nothing bad is gonna happen. You gotta trust me on that.” Angel meets her annoyance in kind. “What, are you gonna try to give me advice? You’re horrible at that, and you hate doing it, so don’t act like you’re trying to be a good friend.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay,” Cherri huffs. “No harm in just fuckin’ checking. Give me an answer and I’ll leave you alone, or whatever it is you want.”

“I gave you an answer, and that’s exactly what I want, so let’s drop it.” Something inside of Angel feels uncomfortably tender, like a bruise.

“Got it.” Cherri knots her hands together and squeezes them tightly. She looks anxious. Angel tries not to let her dissatisfaction get to him.

He looks towards the demon still talking to someone on the phone. Her match-lighting habit has been dropped in favor of a perturbed expression that’s been painted onto her face.

“How’s your turf lookin’?” Angel asks, trying to reignite the conversation. He can see Cherri shift a little out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s lookin’ good. Plenty of suckers ‘round here who don’t know how to keep their shit from getting stolen under their noses.” She sighs and stands up, kicking a shard of glass out of her path. “I should probably be heading home. Catch a couple hours of sleep and get up to something interesting later.”

“You wanna hang out again soon?” Angel asks. A seed of doubt blossoms in his chest; it doesn’t feel right to leave yet.

“Sure. I might be busy, but you can call me in a couple of days.” She gives a quick wave and turns towards the main street.

“Hey!” Angel says, placing a hand to his forehead in an image of dainty despair. Sarcasm masks an ounce of real hurt in his tone. "Don't find some other guy to party with and run off without me, alright?"

Cherri glances back over her shoulder and snorts. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Angie,” she says. “You’re my one and only!”

She turns and blows a kiss before jogging off to join the masses of demons pouring out from closing nightclubs and cheap motels. Angel stands up, feeling his joints adjust after lying back for a while. He fights for balances as he begins to make his way back towards the hotel, steps becoming less wobbly as he settles into his stride.

“You’re sober, you’re sober, you’re sober,” he chants to himself underneath his breath.

As he leaves the street, he notes without much interest that the demon on the phone has left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter TWO... it's here  
as for how i want to continue updating this i'm currently going to shoot for around twice a month. around every two weeks, but maybe only once a month if i'm struggling. if i'm feeling extra productive, i might do three or four in a month, but probably not.  
hope you like!


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